


Jaspar One-Shots

by orphan_account



Category: Jaspar - Fandom
Genre: M/M, cute I guess, gay boys being gay, i am jaspar trash, jaspar af, there may be smut in the future but atm i am not that brave, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:32:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of (utterly random) one-shots, featuring the one and only Joe Sugg and Caspar Lee--the two halves of the Jaspar whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tired

It has been a long day. No, Joe corrects himself, it has been a _long week._ He has had maybe eight hours of sleep in six days and he is pretty sure his eye bags are so far gone they could probably house a family or two, and his hair is verging on flat-out greasy. It’s pretty gross.

 

Caspar’s been in LA for the past two weeks, which means that Joe’s only personified form of self-control is missing, which leaves him without a solution to his nigh-owl life and coffee-fueled days. It’s sort of a miracle he hasn’t driven off a ditch or something, to be honest. In fact, Joe is so tired, he has copy and pasted the same exact clip six times in a row but there is no way he is going to bed, not when he has two more videos to edit and a vlog to film.

 

It’s currently three in the morning, and Joes does not remember the last time he has slept. His phone has been buzzing for what seems like hours despite the fact that he isn’t exactly the ‘popular one’ in his circle of friends. He’s stressed to the max but he’s honestly too tired to blow of steam by screaming or throwing a fit or whatever.

 

Joe misses Caspar.

 

It’s hard to admit, but it’s true.

 

Caspar is energetic and he’s nice and he’s never too serious unless the situation calls for it and he always knows how to calm Joe down and he’s just… Joe’s best friend. Joe knows that he probably isn’t Caspar’s best friend (after all, Caspar has Josh), but Joe can’t think of anyone else who he can rely so fully on.

 

The streets of London aren’t quiet, by any means, and all of the lights are on, but Joe is starting to feel his eyes droop. Before he knows it, he has collapsed atop his computer keyboard, utterly dead to the world.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Caspar is deadbeat tired. It has been what feels like the longest flight, and he has never been so glad to get home. It’s seven in the morning, so he doesn’t expect Joe to be up. But he also doesn’t expect Joe’s door to be wide open, the lights turned on (seriously, what a waste of electricity), face-down on his keyboard. Joe looks disheveled. He’s wearing one of Caspar’s shirts (they always get mixed up in the wash and it’s a wonder how Joe never seems to notice that all of a sudden his shirt falls off his shoulders and droops down his thighs).

 

“Joe?” Caspar calls, quiet, like Joe’s awake and just happens to have his face mashed against the keyboard because yes, that is what sane people do. Joe doesn’t answer, obviously, except for a quiet snuffling noise that Caspar finds inappropriately adorable.

 

Before Caspar can flip his internal switch and enter into an existential crisis revolving around the main idea of ‘am I gay or do I just have gay feelings for Joe’ he slaps himself on the cheek and rubs his eyes. Because yes, while Joe is really cute and Caspar would love to continue gawking creepily at his sleeping roommate, he is tired as fuck and he really needs some sleep before he starts seeing double. And so he drops his bags by the door and lumbers to his bedroom and collapses onto his bed without even taking off his shoes. (Wow, hygienic much, Caspar?)

 

<<>><<>> 

 

At around maybe eight in the morning, Joe blinks awake. He feels even worse than when he had fallen asleep. You know that feeling when you go to have a nap and wake up even more tired like your internal clock’s been forced out of whack and you just haven’t had enough sleep yet you’ve passed the ‘power nap’ limit? That sort of feeling is what Joe is currently feeling.

 

So, it is in this drowsy state that he stumbles to his feet, stubs his toe on his desk, mumbling a ‘ow, fuck’, before he stumbles into the bathroom to take a piss. After washing his hands and nearly poking himself in the eye with a shelf in the process of leaving the bathroom; he trips over his feet with narrowed eyes towards what is probably his own bedroom.

 

Except it isn’t and Joe is sort of a ridiculously tired dumbass who doesn’t even notice that this is _definitely not his room_ when he falls onto Caspar’s bed.

 

It feels nice, Joe thinks to himself. It’s warmer than he remembers and wow, he doesn’t remember buying a body pillow. He tucks his chin in the crook of Caspar’s neck, and breathes in deep. Now, you must forgive Joe for this deed of _sniffing his roommate’s neck_ and put it down as a result of his complete and utter lack of energy and cognitive function. His eyes slide shut.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Caspar wakes up with _someone’s_ knobby knees digging into his thighs, one leg having muscled its way between them, and the feeling of Joe’s quiet breathing huffing steadily against the back of his neck. It probably should feel moist and gross but to Caspar, it’s rather relaxing and a feeling he likes a lot.

 

Maybe too much, _oh._

_Oh,_ as in, if Joe’s knee moved up just a bit things could become very messy. _Oh,_ as in, _fuck. Oh,_ as in, why today, of all days, did Caspar have to be hard? Also, why the _fuck_ was Joe in his bed? Caspar carefully attempts to turn around so that maybe he can make sure that it’s Joe (although he isn’t quite sure who else it could be, given that they are alone in the apartment)—but Joe’s grip in Caspar’s shirt tightens and he lets out a quiet, indignant grumble that almost makes Caspar giggle but doesn’t because the situation as a whole is beyond inappropriate.

 

After what feels like hours but is probably minutes, Caspar manages to turn around. He finds Joe, eyes shut, long lashes pillowed on his cheeks, mouth pursed into something akin to a pout (so, _so_ cute), and his hair flops across his forehead. Caspar’s breath catches in his throat when Joe lets out a pleased sort of sound and buries his face further into Caspar’s chest, where Caspar has no choice but to wrap his arms around Joe. (Yes, no choice, no choice at all because psh, what’re you talking about, this situation totally isn’t what Caspar has thought about happening on and off for years).

 

It’s nice, Caspar decides firmly. It’s nice and he thinks that this should happen more often. Joe is small (at least compared to Caspar), and it’s good to have something to hold onto when he wants to sleep.

 

“Cuddle buddy,” Caspar whispers, very quietly, to a still-asleep Joe, like that isn’t creepy at all, and decides that yes, this is an occurrence that should happen every night. Caspar decides—without Joe—that he is going to drag Joe into his bed and just _cuddle him_ because that is a great idea.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

When Joe wakes up, he is well-rested and still wrapped up in Caspar’s arms. To be honest, he isn’t even surprised anymore, not after all of the, well, _shenanigans,_ they’ve gotten up to in all their years of being friends.  

 

Needless to say, he doesn’t argue (much) when Caspar insists upon sharing a bed with him from that day onwards.


	2. missing you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Joe?” Caspar’s voice is hesitant, almost hopeful.
> 
>  
> 
> “Shut up,” Joe retorts, “and don’t take me seriously.”
> 
>  
> 
> And so he gets up on his tiptoes, reaching up to take Caspar’s face between his hands. Caspar’s skin is soft, and he rubs his thumb along the bottom cushion of his lip. Caspar’s eyes are so wide.

 Joe Sugg has never been an exceptionally clingy person. Caspar Lee, on the other hand, always has been. But for some reason, Joe thinks that Caspar is coping exceptionally well with their moving apartments when all he can do is cling to the last vestiges of Caspar’s _presence_ and try his hardest not to sprint all the way to Caspar’s new apartment so that his own home won’t feel so big anymore.

 

He fucks three girls in the first week Caspar is gone. It fills a hole (no pun intended), but it isn’t enough. Joe hadn’t thought that he’d be particularly prone to feeling lonely, but, well, without Caspar, he is. Sure, he sees Caspar during the day, but it just isn’t quite the same when there isn’t that constant presence who asks him if he wants coffee or tea or if they should have Mexican or Chinese for dinner. It’s weird.

 

It’s weird, waking up and knowing that Caspar isn’t in the room right next to his, that he isn’t across the hall or just upstairs having a coffee (well, sometimes he is, but Joe doesn’t really mind when Caspar breaks in every once in a while to leech off him and watch free cable TV). Joe feels so, so lonely, and to be quite honest, it’s starting to screw with his head.

 

Joe sometimes—when he can’t sleep—finds himself watching some of Caspar’s old videos again, and more often or not, he finds himself staring, wide-eyed at the videos that feature both of them. It’s pathetic, really, but Joe can’t help it.

 

Whenever Caspar comes over, he talks really loud, really fast, and laughs hard and horrible, almost like he’s trying to fill in the gap of Caspar’s absence. Caspar notices.

 

“Mate, are you alright?” Caspar asks one night, when he, Oli and Joe are over at Joe’s new apartment with three pizzas between them and one too many beers. Oli is in the bathroom, where he had oh-so-pleasantly announced that he had to take a shit. Joe is at the counter, pouring himself a scotch on the rocks. It’s a little early for hard alcohol but he feels like he definitely needs a hit.

 

“Whaddya mean?” Joe asks, all while downing the cup like a pro, barely even flinching. Caspar winces in his place.

 

“Did something happen? You’re acting weird, Joe.” Caspar presses, and Joe shakes his head so fervently he feels the muscles in his neck spasm with protest.

 

“No!” He shouts, too loud, and Caspar’s eyes go wide. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I’m fine.” He smiles convincingly. “Honest, mate.” He shakes his head and laughs a little. “It’s been a long week, y’know, what with all the stuff with…” he pauses, his throat suddenly tight. “Rent, and unpacking, and… y’know. The works.”

 

Something seems to fall into place for Caspar because he nods. “Oh, yeah, I got you, I’m absolutely knackered, too.”

 

Joe lets out a sigh of relief.

 

And then Oli comes out of the bathroom where Joe jokes about the smell and they go back to playing FIFA and flipping through shitty foreign movies with subtitles that move too fast. Joe thinks that Caspar forgets about that little moment before. He doesn’t.

 

“Hey,” Caspar suddenly says, when it’s around 8:30 and Oli is getting ready to leave. “What about we go out? Just us—a lad’s night. Go to a bar, down a few shots, have fun.”

 

Joe raises his eyebrows. While Caspar is always up for partying, he usually isn’t the one to push for what seems to be a wild night.

 

“Really?” Oli asks, wrinkling his nose. “Isn’t it kind of late?”

 

“What are you, a granny?” Caspar eggs on, and Oli scoffs.

 

“No, I’m not, you knobhead. Fine, I’ll go.” Oli turns to Joe. “Joe?”

 

Joe is a little hesitant. He had initially thought that after Oli and Caspar had left, he’d just go to his room and sulk a bit, and maybe wear one of Caspar’s shirts he’d managed to nab and see if it still smelled like him. Creepy, but, as Joe thought, entirely necessary.

 

“C’mon, Joe,” Caspar wheedles, and he leans in close. Joe’s chest goes tight and he looks away. He nods.

 

“Sure, whatever. Just… just let me get changed.”

 

<<>><<>> 

 

A night out leaves Joe disgustingly drunk and giggly, stumbling over his own feet and clinging to whoever is near him. He’s kissed four girls tonight, all who have smiled at him like he was endearing and patted his cheek—they didn’t even seem mad, he’s a little sad he didn’t get their numbers, they seemed really nice—and Caspar and Oli have laughed at him all night long. Oli’s a bit tipsy, but it isn’t too much for him to handle.

 

Caspar is probably the soberest out of all of them, which, Joe has to admit, is strange. But he can’t really think about it even more because, well, he’s drunk off his fucking ass.

 

Oli goes his own way home, and Joe attempts to do the same, but Caspar catches his wrist and stops him.

 

“You’re way too drunk, Joe,” and for a second, Caspar looks dead serious before a smile splits his face. “C’mon, mate, let me walk you home.”

 

Joe studies Caspar for a second, before he pitches forward and clings to the front of Caspar’s shirt, and presses his face against Caspar’s chest. Caspar’s eyes go wide. Joe thinks that he can hear the slam of Caspar’s heartbeat, too fast too loud, but then again, it could just be him. “Your eyes,” he hiccups, “are so, so _blue._ Did you know that, Caspar? That,” he hiccups again, “that your eyes are _blue._ It’s so _w-weird.”_

 

Caspar laughs. “Yeah, Joe. I know my eyes are blue.”

 

They’re at the shops near Joe’s apartment now, and Joe wishes so much that they would just turn the bend now where their old apartment used to be. That doesn’t happen. They walk past the shops, and it’s a few minutes before they come to a stop at Joe’s door.

 

Caspar shifts, awkwardly, before he clears his throat. “I… I guess I’ll head off, then.”

 

“NO!” Joe shouts, and he clings even harder to Caspar. It’s so pathetic but he doesn’t want Caspar to go—not now, not ever. “I,” he’s humiliated to hear the way his voice wobbles, and it’s with a creeping sense of dread that he realizes that his eyes are beginning to water. “Stay,” he whispers. “You know,” Joe begins, and his voice raises. “I miss you, you fucker,” he shouts, and he grabs Caspar’s hand. “I’m so… _pathetic,_ fuck.” He drops his head onto Caspar’s arm, laughing bitterly.

 

“Joe?” Caspar’s voice is hesitant, almost hopeful.

 

“Shut up,” Joe retorts, “and don’t take me seriously.”

 

And so he gets up on his tiptoes, reaching up to take Caspar’s face between his hands. Caspar’s skin is soft, and he rubs his thumb along the bottom cushion of his lip. Caspar’s eyes are so wide.

 

“You’re so fucking tall,” Joe whispers, mouth curving up into a sad smile. And then he’s dragging Caspar down, down, and his lips are against Caspar’s, bittersweet and thick with the taste of vodka. It’s a soft kiss, too delicate for two boys who have been out drinking, just a whisper of a touch. Caspar’s hands settle at his hips, and it’s a strange feeling to be kissing someone who’s so much taller than him, to be kissing someone who’s hands are so big and so warm against his skin. Caspar’s thumb runs along the sliver of skin just underneath Joe’s shirt, and Joe lets out a shaky breath.

 

It seems like years but what is probably just a few seconds when Joe pulls away. His breathing is unsteady, coming out in fast gasps, and he thinks it’s nothing to do with the kiss (well, maybe a little), and everything to do with the feelings rushing through him, the way a tsunami wrecks a city.

 

“Wow, Joe,” Caspar’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “You really missed me, huh?”

 

“Fuck off, mate,” Joe grumbles, his cheeks burning.

 

“Well, that’s alright because I missed you too,” Caspar admits, and his mouth is against Joe’s all over again.

 

This time it’s anything but soft, all clashing teeth and the insistent press of their mouths, the dragging of teeth over skin. Caspar pulls away, and Joe almost lets out an embarrassing whine before Caspar’s nipping his way across Joe’s jaw and down the column of his throat, sucking hickeys onto tender flesh. Joe can’t help but let a quiet moan when Caspar does _that thing_ with his tongue, and Caspar laughs into Joe’s skin, right at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. Joe shivers at the feeling, and claws his fingers into Caspar’s shirt, his back.

 

Caspar slams him against the door, and it’s then that Joe realizes that they are doing this _outside_ his apartment.

 

“W-Wait,” Joe pants, and he fumbles for his pockets. “Inside,” he tells Caspar, and Caspar groans, hot and heavy into the crook of Joe’s neck. With trembling fingers, Joe unlocks the door, and Caspar is pushing him inside, and they’re tripping over their feet. It’s a flurry of lips and too-much tongue and the slide and press of hands undershirts and sometimes even in each other’s pants.

 

Joe doesn’t think he has ever been more turned on, to be quite honest.

 

“Shirt,” Caspar insists, and he’s tugging Joe’s shirt off over his head, hands splaying across Joe’s stomach and back and shoulder blades, pulling him impossibly close. Joe does the same for Caspar, and when Caspar gets stuck they both giggle a bit before the smiles fade and they’re all over one another again.

 

Joe knows that he’s drunk, that he’s not thinking clearly, but he thinks that he won’t regret this, not today, tomorrow, not when he’s sober and not when he’s drunk. Kissing Caspar Lee, he thinks, will never be a mistake.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

When Joe wakes up, at eleven in the morning, he’s greeted with a ferocious headache and the press of someone against his back, an arm slung across his hip. Also a ridiculous soreness in his lower half, but to be honest, Joe isn’t surprised at all. Joe’s always been good with remembering things, even when he’s been drunk. He turns around, not without a wince, of course, and finds Caspar, still fast asleep, beside him.

 

Joe’s heart catches in his chest. Oh. _Oh._ Caspar.

 

He bites his lip, wanting to jump and cheer because well, he’s always known that he’s loved Caspar (platonically, initially, and then… not so much). He stumbles to his feet, sees the box of condoms torn open in their haste and feels heat flush through his cheeks. Oh, wow, they were definitely desperate. He goes to the bathroom and gets in the shower, still standing on shaky legs, not quite use to the new ache in his lower half.

 

Just as he’s preparing to shut the water off, a few minutes later, the bathroom door opens, and Caspar steps in. He yawns, and smiles at Joe.

 

“Hey, JoJo,” Caspar grins, and Joe definitely sees his eyes dip below the waist.

 

“Get out, you dick!” Joe laughs, and turns the water off. Should things be awkward? Maybe. Probably. But it’s Caspar and Joe doesn’t know why he ever let things get weird between the two of them. Caspar is his best friend, and Joe is definitely one of Caspar’s. Things aren’t supposed to get awkward, so Joe won’t let them.

 

“Mm-hm,” Caspar hums pleasantly, and he reaches over to wrap his arms around Joe’s waist just as Joe ties a towel around his hips. Caspar’s put on a pair of boxer-briefs that honestly do nothing to hide anything, but it’s not like Joe minds at all. He tries to kiss the corner of Joe’s mouth, but then Joe pushes his face away.

 

“Gross, Casp,” Joe laughs. “Brush your teeth, and _then_ we’ll talk about that kiss.”

 

Caspar pouts but does as Joe says, and Joe grins.

 

After Caspar brushes his teeth, he’s insistent as he kisses Joe, and Joe really, _really_ likes just how easy this is.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

After that, they find that they never spend a night alone again, either at Caspar’s place or Joe’s.

 

Joe likes it that way, and he thinks Caspar does, too.

 

He does. 


	3. awestruck

_the ‘i just caught a glimpse of you and i was so impressed and distracted by your sheer beauty that i smacked face-first into an open locker-door’ au._

 

“The new kid is cute,” Caspar is only partially listening to his friend, Louise, as she prattles on and on about the two new students.

 

“Which one?” Caspar hears Alfie pipe up, curious. He’s flipping through his phone, liking random ex-girlfriends’ and ex-boyfriends’ Instagram photos (out of spite, he swears up and down, but, honestly, sometimes he just misses them).

 

“They’re siblings,” Louise explains when Caspar finally decides to tune in. “Both are British, and they’re both quite small. One girl, one boy.”

 

“You sound like you’re reading off a teleprompter,” Josh laughs, and Louise flicks him on the arm.

 

“See you,” Caspar says, suddenly. “My class is down this hall.”

 

His friends bid him goodbye, and just a few meters away, he glances up from his phone and…

 

He sees the most beautiful boy he has ever seen. Or that could just be his hormones speaking, but he’s pretty sure it’s the first thing. The boy is a bit smaller than most boys are, and he has lovely caramel hair that flops in sort of a loose quiff, nearly falling into a pair of the bluest eyes Caspar has ever had the pleasure of seeing. He’s talking to a female version of himself—his sister, Caspar presumes—but he’s all Caspar can look at. He can’t seem to look away.

 

And pretty-boy tilts his head back and laughs, lips splitting to display white teeth and it is so cute. So cute and blinding, in fact, that Caspar doesn’t even notice the open locker.

 

It’s a split second after he hits the locker, face-first, that he realizes that, _shit, I’ve walked into an open locker._ His head snaps back, pain spiking through his nose, and he falls flat on his ass. He hears laughter, but he doesn’t mind much. After all, Caspar’s always been one to laugh with others at himself, and he doesn’t really like to take things personally. But then suddenly those pretty blue eyes are all too close and he’s nose-to-nose with the new boy.

 

“Shit, are you okay?”

 

Caspar thinks he melts a little. Oh, what a voice.

 

“U-Uh, yeah. I, uh, um, y-yeah. F-Fine.” Okay. What the fuck? Caspar Lee does not fucking _stutter._ But that doesn’t matter, because the new boy is so close and Caspar doesn’t even want to blink lest he miss a thing.

 

“Mate, are you alright? Your eyes are watering.”

 

Oh. “That would be from the not-blinking thing.” Caspar informs the boy solemnly.

 

“What?” He laughs a little awkwardly, puzzled.

 

“You’re really cute,” Caspar blurts out. “Oh shit, that was weird, wasn’t it? But you’re really cute.”

 

The boy laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You must’ve jumbled your head there, mate. I think you’ve got me mixed up for my sister.”

 

Caspar blinks, confused. “What? No? Dude, I’m about as straight as a circle. I’m not mixing anything up. You’re the cute one.”

 

“O-Oh.” The boy goes quiet, and his cheeks flush a pretty pink. “W-Well. I’m flattered, really. Um… well. Are you alright? Oh, oh, and by the way, my name’s Joe. Joe Sugg.” He smiles again at Caspar, this time shy and sort of awkward. Caspar grins goofily at him.

 

“Joe suits you,” Caspar says, as he gathers his things, still scattered on the floor. “And I’m Caspar Lee. Caspar with an A, not an E. Don’t forget that.” He gets to his feet, and with Joe in front of him, he realizes that he must have a good six inches on him. Caspar nearly giggles. He’s always been a sucker for height differences.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Joe says, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m new, here, u-um, that’s obvious, s-so…”

 

“I’d like to be your friend,” Caspar announces, loudly, and he catches sight of Joe’s sister smiling and looking proud behind Joe. “And I’d also like to have your number because a cute boy’s number is always nice to have.”

 

“Shut up,” Joe mumbles, obviously embarrassed, but he recites his number anyways, much to Caspar’s delight.

 

Joe can’t seem to meet Caspar’s gaze, blue eyes sliding away from him every few seconds, and he’s definitely blushing. It’s so, completely, irrefutably _adorable._

 

 _Yes, today is shaping up to be a good day, bruised noses and aching jaws be damned,_ Caspar thinks, smiling brightly at Joe.


	4. dancer

Joe Sugg is 22 years old.  He loves watching YouTube, sweets, and holiday breaks when he doesn’t have college classes. He works thatching roofs part-time, but it’s a little lonely, so he fills in his extra time with work at a nearby convenience store but he’s terrible at putting things on the higher shelves. But he’s an ordinary guy, with an ordinary job, and his friends are a little… well.

 

And that’s how he finds himself here, in the dim club, surrounded by too-loud music and the smell of sweat and strong perfume. He feels a little out of place amongst his rowdy coworkers, but Marcus and Alfie refuse to let him escape from out between them. He’s trapped, and no matter how many times he insists he has to go to the bathroom they don’t let him go. (Well, it was worth a try). Watching the sensual bodies on stage, Joe really wishes he were at home curled in a blanket and playing FIFA.

 

It’s like that, staring down at his lap shame-faced, that it happens. Marcus nudges his side with a hoot, and after the twentieth consecutive nudge, Joe glances up, irritated.

 

He's expecting to see another girl, admittedly cute enough, but not something he's particularly interested in when he could be home playing video games or watching YouTube. He's about to glance right back down, cheeks pink, but his eyes snap up again because this is something he has certainly not expected to see in a seedy club specializing in bikinis and cowgirl outfits.

 

That is 100% definitely a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie.

 

Joe’s eyes trail up, and his jaw drops. That is most definitely _not_ a girl. He can sort of hear his friends laughing, and he’s so shell-shocked he can’t even bring himself to slap their hands away when they ruffle his hair and guffaw. He’s still staring at the guy (most definitely a guy) on stage, tall and imposing with a strangely out of place goofy grin and not very sexy-looking at all. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe he’s one of the workers, or a hand stage, or something.

 

And then he starts to tug his hoodie over his head. Something like taking a hoodie shouldn’t be sexy—it’s supposed be an awkward struggle, but this guy does it with ease, tugging just hard enough so that the shirt underneath rides high and displays a sliver of tan skin. Joe chokes on his spit.

 

By now, most of the people have lost interest, taking a break to go buy some of the weird neon drinks the club sells, and he curses himself for not paying more attention to his friends when they had suddenly decided to drag him to this seedy bar tucked between a tattoo parlor and run-down pizza place. Marcus and Alfie are not longer paying attention, but Joe can’t drag his eyes away. There are others, like him, too, captivated by him and he can slowly start to see why. This guy isn’t the textbook definition of ‘seductive’ by any means, but when he tosses off his shirt and hikes his sweatpants low on his hips, Joe feels his heart jump.

 

He should not, not, not be watching this.  

 

It’s rude to stare, and Joe knows it. He knows it, but it doesn’t make it any easier to look away as he watches the guy run a hand through his disheveled blonde hair; he’ll look away now, now… now, he tells himself, now…

 

And then there’s a pair of glittering blue eyes looking at him and that’s it, he’s done, he’s out of here.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

 The following morning finds Joes tired and slightly grumpy when he goes to work. The important thing, he tells himself, is that he will never, ever, go anywhere with his friends ever again.

 

The familiarity of the shop and usual customers is refreshing and Joe soon finds himself relaxing and even smiling. The bell over the door rings, signaling the arrival of a new customer, and Joe spins around with a smile, prepared to welcome them.

 

Or _him._

 

He is tall and Joe finds himself shrinking back, not because of his height but because of that knowing smile, the same rumpled blonde hair and hoodie that Joe had unfortunately dreamt about last night amongst pounding headaches.

 

And then he’s stammering and stumbling backwards, crashing into a shelf and countless boxes rain down around him and Joe doesn’t even care, he’s too busy feelings his heart leap in his chest when the guy bends down over him to help gather the boxes. He has big hands, and it’s not a huge leap for Joe to imagine him using those hands to slowly, slowly, slide his shirt up a muscled abdomen; and it’s even less of a stretch to imagine those hands touching _Joe._ Oh. _Oh._ He scrambles back, cheeks burning red at his own imagination.

 

After stacking the boxes all over again, the guy turns to Joe and laughs, grinning. His voice is deep and pleasant, and Joe kind of wants to smash his face against a wall.

 

“Are you okay?” The guy asks, holding a hand out to help Joe up.

 

Flushing, indignant, Joe nods fervently. “Fine. I’m fine.”

 

“Nice to finally meet you,” the guy says conversationally. “That was the first time I’ve ever made someone run away from me like that. I have to say, it was an interesting experience.”

 

Joe didn’t think it was possible to get even more red than he was before, but apparently, God hates him and it is. “It wasn’t you!” He insists. “I had, um… to take a shit!” He wants to stop but he’s a dumbass so he won’t. “I mean… I wasn’t expecting you… for you to…”

 

“We can’t all be cashiers,” He cuts in pleasantly with a wry smile. “Anyways, when I come here, it’s usually the short one…” he looks Joe up and down, and his smile widens. “Well. The _other_ short one.”

 

“Well, screw you,” Joe retorts, crossing his arms.

 

“Gladly,” the guy grins. “I’ve been told that I’m really good in bed.”

 

Joe cannot believe that those words actually left an actual human’s mouth. “What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself, and turns away from the guy.

 

“Caspar.” He says.

 

Joe spins around, frowning. “What?”

 

“My name. It’s Caspar. Caspar Lee.” He holds out a hand expectantly, staring down at Joe in a way that should be but isn’t demeaning at all. Joe hesitantly reaches out to grasp his hand. His hand is big, just as Joe had established earlier, and the skin is rough against his.

 

“I’m Joe,” Joe says, but before he can tell Caspar his last name, Caspar cuts in with a grin.

 

“Joe Sugg, I know. I can read.” He gestures at Joe’s shirt, where his nametag is pinned haphazardly to the breast pocket, and Joe feels himself turning pink. He usually isn’t one to blush, but something about Caspar just _gets_ to him. “It suits you,” Caspar says. “I think.”

 

“You think, huh?” Joe laughs, and he finds Caspar staring at him with an inscrutable expression. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Caspar says, pursing his lips in contemplation. “…Nothing.” But then his mouth blossoms into a heart-stopping smile and he’s leaning across the counter to look into Joe’s eyes. Too close. Too close. “Although, given how hard you were staring yesterday, how about meeting up with me sometime… say, after your shift?”

 

Joe raises his eyebrows, and attempts (unsuccessfully) to put a shampoo bottle high up on the shelf behind the counter.

 

“Need help with that?” Caspar asks, sounding like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, and Joe scoffs.

 

“No, who do you take me for? I’m no damsel in distress.” And, to Caspar’s utter shock, he finds Joe swinging onto the counter just so he can slot the bottle into place. Because despite Joe’s small stature, he’s sporty to the max and he isn’t a klutz.

 

“I’m impressed,” Caspar laughs. “So, how about that date?”

 

 _Date?_ Joe nearly chokes.

 

“C’mon,” Caspar pushes. “I’m cute and blonde and I’m easy.”

 

Joe laughs into his hand. “Easy? Kid, I don’t think that’s something you should be telling random blokes who work at cheap stores.”

 

“Kid?” Caspar is incensed. “I’m not that young!”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“I’m 19.” Joe’s eyebrows shoot up.

 

“That’s plenty young to be working at a strip club.” Joe points out, and Caspar shrugs, uncaring.

 

“It’s not all that bad, honestly, it’s not like I’m one of the girls. All the boss asks of me is to appear two or three times a week, take my shirt off, prance about a bit.  The money’s good. I get tips, too.” He smiles, and Joe thinks its much too sweet of a smile for a boy who seems to be fine with working in the shittiest place in town. “C’mon, Joe, humor me. I think you’re cute and, well, please?”

 

Joe smiles a little at his hands. “Sure, why not. My shift ends in an hour, so…”

 

“I’ll stay!” Caspar chirps, and settles in the stool next to the counter without a second thought. Joe blinks, a little taken-aback, but he smiles at Caspar all the same.

 

Caspar is a lot easier to talk to than he’d initially thought. He’s not some weirdo into creepy shit, he’s just a normal teenager who just happens to take his clothes off for a living. He likes YouTube as well, and they both briefly entertain the notion of starting channels, an idea that Joe has always secretly liked. Caspar has something of an obsession with pizza, and he has a sister, just like Joe, and he’s from South Africa. He plays tennis and he’s had several girlfriends before Joe. He doesn’t know what to classify himself as, because, apparently, “I like everyone. If they’re nice to me, I think I could fall in love with anyone.”

 

He’s sort of like an easily excitable puppy, and he grows on Joe all too quickly.

 

After his shift, they end up wandering around town and going to the video store where they rent out a bunch of classics like: Psycho, The Birds, and various other Alfred Hitchcock films. Joe invites Caspar to his apartment—not the best idea, but honestly, how threatening can Caspar be?

 

Caspar, as Joe soon finds out, scares easily, and likes to cling to people when he does. Joe honestly doesn’t mind it because, after all, Caspar’s big and he’s warm and he gives nice hugs, even when he’s screaming and terrified and they seem less like hugs and more like chokeholds.

 

These random ~~dates~~ discussions become strangely regular occurrences. Joe hates to admit it, but he likes Caspar a lot more than he should. Caspar is goofy and sweet, and talking with him always puts Joe in a good mood. He really, really likes Caspar.

 

But Caspar is also a stripper who gets hooted at and probably is the object of some old man’s perverse sexual fantasies and that just seems weird to Joe because sometimes Caspar is the object of his own dreams and he really doesn’t want to be grouped in the same category as those old men. Caspar is so used to being on stage, slipping his shirt over his head, hiking his pants low on his hips, trailing those hands over golden skin, sensual, smooth, easy.

 

Joe goes to the strip club two more times—only to wait for Caspar’s shift to end, though, and it definitely isn’t _Joe’s_ fault that he happens to catch the one time Caspar drops his pants and slides a hand purposefully into the waistband of his boxers, teasing, not touching, to the audience’s utter delight. Joe thinks that he won’t be able to look Caspar in the eye after that, but then, too soon, Caspar’s in front of him, in the same hoodie and sweatpants with that easy-going smile and he’s the same old Caspar who’s just a teenaged boy with a nice smile, not a boy who sometimes strips for cash.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

“Doesn’t stripping make you uncomfortable?” Joe asks, when they’re out at lunch together.

 

Caspar stirs his drink thoughtfully, before raising it to his lips and taking a sip. “No, not really,” he decides, with a shrug. “After all, my job isn’t like the other girls’ jobs. They have to really play it up, really dramatize it, y’know? Any way for them to stand out, whether it be to crawl, to hump the air, each other, a _pole._ Getting cash for them is harder because there’s a lot more female strippers than male. And the club gets about the same amount of gay and straight customers, but there are only two guy strippers and about 25 girls.” Caspar laughs a little. “So most of the gay audience have much lower standards, so they’re good with just me taking my shirt off, waving it about for a bit.”

 

“Wait, there are two guys?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Caspar smiles knowingly, and Joe’s cheeks flush. “Just me and this guy called Tyler.” Caspar shrugs. “Honestly, Tyler likes to play it up, so if people really want a show, they’ll watch him. But if people just sort of like tall, blonde guys, then they’ll watch me.”

 

“I’d feel really awkward if I had your job,” Joe admits. The thought of stripping in front of an _audience_ terrifies him.

 

Caspar’s lips quirk into a lopsided grin. “I think you’d make a great stripper,” he says, too loud, and Joe wants to sink into the ground. His cheeks feel like they have literally caught on fire. “Although, if you did it, maybe you’d have to wear girl’s clothing, since you’re so small. Tyler sometimes dresses up in a dress. People like it a lot, surprisingly.”

 

Joe sputters, speechless and thoroughly flustered. “Shut up, you dick!” He snaps, and Caspar throws his head back and laughs. It’s loud and cheerful and infectious enough so that Joe finds himself smiling at the boy despite the fact that Caspar just told him outright that the only way he’d work as a stripper would be if he were to put on a stinking dress.

 

But all the same, Joe tolerates Caspar, and they somehow manage to end up seeing each other almost every day. And Joe thinks, slowly, slowly, that the longer he knows Caspar, the more he wants to kiss him. He’s not sure if he’s gay, or if it’s just Caspar, but he knows that he definitely, _totally_ wants to kiss Caspar and he doesn’t know if Caspar feels the same. Caspar is just naturally touchy—he flirts with everyone—but he does seem to prefer Joe… so…

 

Still.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

One night, Caspar takes Joe to the strip club, and they both end up getting really drunk. When the performers aren’t on stage, the stage is free, and Caspar somehow convinces Joe to get up on stage with him. Caspar smiles, heavy-lidded eyes sultry and his mouth lilting into a lazy, sensual smile. He trails his hands over his stomach, lifting his shirt and drags his hand languidly over tanned skin, displaying a lightly muscles abdomen.

 

Joe isn’t drooling, nope, no way.

 

Caspar takes hold of Joe’s wrist and pulls him close, and Joe stumbles into Caspar’s chest. Caspar’s looking down at Joe through his lashes, smile still lazy, drunk, sexy. He takes Joe’s hand and presses it up against his skin, and tucks his face into Joe’s neck. Breath catching in his chest, Joe can do nothing but remain absolutely frozen as Caspar’s lips brush (teasing, barely touching) the hollow of his throat.

 

It’s almost out of reflex that Joe tilts his head back to allow Caspar more access, and he knows the audience is watching them. It’s verging on voyeurism, but Joe finds that he doesn’t care—not when Caspar is sliding his shirt over his head, those big hands finally on Joe’s waist, spinning Joe around so that his back is pressed to Caspar’s chest.

 

“You’re stripping,” Caspar whispers in Joe’s ear. “See? It isn’t so hard.” It’s not, not with Caspar there, Caspar’s bare chest against Joe’s bare back, and Joe tilts his head back, resting his head atop Caspar’s shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

 

They’re doing something that might be dancing, and Joe feels hot all over. Caspar’s hips are pressed to his, and he can feel nothing but the slow drag of Caspar’s hands down his sides, on his thighs, coming painfully close to areas that should not be mentioned.

 

“Caspar,” Joe murmurs, and his voice is raspy. “ _Caspar.”_

 

Caspar lets out a groan, rumbling deep in his throat, and digs his fingers so hard into Joe’s hips Joe’s sure that there’s going to be bruises shaped around Caspar’s grip.

 

And then they’re off the stage, shirts long forgotten, and Caspar is pushing him into the shitty bathroom stall and Joe has his first time pressed up against the wall of a seedy club’s bathroom while Caspar fucks him senseless.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Things pick up, after that. They’re not strictly in a relationship. They’re still friends, they still have those long chats, whether it be while Joe is working or Caspar is working or anything in between—but they sometimes fuck, now. At Caspar’s place; on the couch, in his bedroom, on the kitchen counter. At Joe’s place; in his bedroom, in the shower, against the floor-to-ceiling window.

 

They’re friends, that’s right, and maybe (definitely) something more, and Joe loves it.

 

Maybe he should thank his friends for taking him to that strip club, after all.


	5. shirts

Joe Sugg has always been smaller than most of his friends. When he was in high school, he’d always held some hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d hit this incredible, late growth spurt, and shoot up. But he didn’t, and he stayed small. Even at 24, he still sometimes thinks about whether or not it’s possible for him to grow any taller. At this point, it’s pretty much pointless, but Joe is an optimistic sort of person.  

 

Caspar Lee has always been pretty tall. Maybe just a little above average as a kid, but at 6’2” now, that’s pretty fucking impressive. Caspar knows Joe hates that he’s a good head taller than him, but Caspar also knows that Joe really likes wearing his shirts. And it’s not like Caspar is going to stop him because c’mon, a chance to see Joe in a too-big shirt, the neck to wide and slipping down one shoulder? It’s just too good to be true, honestly.

 

Joe is adorable, no matter how hard he protests the fact.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Today, Joe feels like maybe a tractor has run him over and he was just run through a blender before being put back together by a fifth grader with scotch tape and liquid glue. He feels like shit. And the thing is, he can’t just stay at home, because today’s the day where him and all his friends gather and film a plethora of videos, and Tyler is here which means there’s no way to get them to reschedule (not like Joe would’ve done that anyway, he’s not that selfish—he’s not going to upend and entire day’s worth of plans just because he’s feeling a little under the weather).

 

“Joe?” Caspar rings the doorbell just as Joe is rummaging through his drawers to try and find one of Caspar’s hoodies that he might’ve maybe ‘left behind’ (aka Joe stole it because dammit he really likes them, they’re big and soft and smell like Caspar). Joe sort of wants to break down and cry (but he won’t because he’s a fucking grown-ass man and crying over feeling a little down is just plain stupid) and he’s so frazzled. He only has one sock and one shoe for the opposite foot, and he just realized his favorite jeans have a huge rip up the side.

 

“Coming!” Joe shouts, before finally giving up on finding the hoodie. Maybe Caspar’ll let him hug him or something.

 

He makes his way to the door and swings it open. Caspar’s eyebrows shoot up at the sight of Joe looking so wrecked, and he leans in close. “Are you alright, mate?”

 

“Not really,” Joe sighs, tired. “I can’t find _anything,_ and I had like four hours of sleep and I think I have a cold and shit I can’t do anything right today and it’s just _one of those days,_ y’know,” and he’s horrified to find that his voice is beginning to crack and his throat is going tight.

 

“Aw, Joe… why don’t you stay home and rest, then?” Caspar asks, concerned, and he puts a hand on Joe’s cheek. If it were anyone other than Caspar, that would’ve just been fucking weird, but because it’s Caspar, it’s sort of just a given, what with his whole personality.

 

“I can’t,” Joe complains. “I have to film, like, four videos, and I just…” He tilts his head back and sighs.

 

Caspar wordlessly walks forwards and wraps his arms around Joe. Joe is stiff for just a moment before he relaxes and lets his head drop against Caspar’s chest. Caspar is warm and he smells familiar, and just for a little while there, Joe seriously regrets ever moving out of that apartment. He wishes Caspar were always here, just like this. He wraps his arms around Caspar’s waist and clings hard, because he doesn’t ever want to let go.

 

“Can I,” Joe whispers, and Caspar makes a pleased sort of sound, “borrow your shirt?”

 

<<>><<>> 

 

And that’s how Caspar ends up in just his sweater while Joe wears his shirt. Honestly, Caspar just can’t resist, not when Joe is looking up at him with those big, blue eyes, all doe-eyed and pouty. Joe is fucking adorable, and he really knows how to use that to his advantage.

 

Joe doesn’t seem to mind that Caspar’s shirt is obviously too big, hanging down to about mid-thigh, the collar so wide it slips off his shoulders, displaying prominent clavicles and thin shoulders. On the tube, Caspar actually thinks he sees Joe cuddling into the shirt, and he maybe even sniffs it once or twice. It’s probably creepy, but Caspar thinks everything Joe does is endearing, so he lets it go.

 

They aren’t dating or anything, but it’s clear that from the looks of the people on the tube, everyone thinks they are. Caspar’s got his arms around Joe, and Joe’s asleep, head resting on Caspar’s shoulder. Some people are staring at them like they’re weird, or cute, or freaks, but Caspar doesn’t mind. Joe is asleep and curled up into him, wearing Caspar’s shirt and Caspar really, really likes it.

 

When they finally show up at Zoe’s house, the second she sees Joe, looking sleepy and in such a massive shirt, she bursts out laughing. Her laughter brings Alfie to her side, and when he sees Joe, leaning against Caspar in a shirt that could practically constitute as a dress, he begins to laugh too.

 

“Nice fashion statement, Joe,” Zoe pats Joe’s shoulder. “Is that Caspar’s shirt?”

 

Joe flips her off, and she laughs good-naturedly with a wry shake of her head. Its obvious Joe is still feeling shitty, so she lets him go this time around instead of hitting him over the head like she normally would.

 

As soon as everyone gathers in the living room, Marcus, Jim, Tanya, Tyler, Alfie, Zoe, Joe and Caspar, Caspar pulls Joe to the couch and stations them purposefully so that they’re squished between an armrest and Tyler. Caspar does this inconspicuously, in a way that allows Joe to half sit on him, half lean on him, curled into his side with his head against his shoulder.

 

Yes, Caspar nods to himself, Joe Sugg is _really_ fucking adorable, especially when he’s wearing one of Caspar’s shirts.

 

 


	6. intertwined

Joe has had those four little words engraved onto the inner part of his wrist for as long as he can remember. His mom says they appeared when he was just a few months old, and unlike Zoe, who had cried for hours, he just gaped at the words glowing on his wrist. But then again, Joe doesn’t remember this. The first time he dares to stroke his finger across the words, he’s eight, and he’s in bed.

 

It’s dark in his room, save for the tiny Batman nightlight that does absolutely nothing to brighten the dark, and it is silent. Joe knows that the words say, ‘ _You forgot your scarf,”_ which is really weird because Joe hates scarves—they’re itchy and pointless and keep slipping and why wear them if you have a high collar anyways? But when he runs his fingers over the mark, someone’s voice fills his head.

 

“You forgot your scarf,” and Joe gasps because he hadn’t expected such a low, drawling voice—and his soulmate is a boy? The voice is deep enough so that he knows that he’ll meet his soulmate when he’s much, much older, but hearing the voice relaxes him so he keeps pressing at that mark, fingers such a constant presence at his wrist that his skin tingles and his head is filled with the sound of his soulmate’s voice.

 

Joe lets the voice lull him to sleep.

 

Joe lets the voice lull him to sleep on many sleepless nights, through middle school, through high school, through first loves and heartbreaks. It becomes a constant and he loves it.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Caspar hates the mark on the inside of his wrist. He hates that he has some sort of stupid, preordained destiny, fate out of his control… or so he tells himself. He’s goddamn _terrified._ Who is his soulmate? Who is this person who he’s supposedly destined to meet and fall in love with? Caspar hates it. While his friends have entire sentences strewn across their arms, all he has is a simple, measly little ‘ _Oh.’_ and Caspar refuses to run his fingers over the mark. No. He’s terrified, petrified of listening to the sound of his soulmate’s voice. Maybe it’s stupid, but it’s Caspar’s way of regaining control.

 

He makes sure to wear a slew of wristbands just so he never accidentally touches his wrist with his fingers. It’s ridiculous and stupid but Caspar refuses to listen.

 

He can’t accept that he doesn’t have control. He can’t. He _can’t._

 

<<>><<>> 

 

By the time Joe is a junior in college, he’s beginning to feel a little uneasy. When is he supposed to meet his soulmate? Granted, he’s still young, but he’s always been a sort of nervous person and a lot of his friends have already found their soulmates. Joe doesn’t like being lonely, so he learns how to flirt with girls (very successfully, might I add) and get their numbers minutes within meeting them.

 

So Joe, despite his hatred for scarves, finds a relatively soft, not-so-itchy cashmere blue scarf and wears it everyday. It becomes a constant (a fucking annoying one), but he never forgets to sling the scarf around his neck every morning, even as he chokes down his coffee and toast in his rush to get to class.

 

Listening to the words don’t have the same effect on him as they used to. It feels bittersweet and lonely, and sometimes Joe’s brain turns that voice into words in his dream. Joe dreams about faceless boys with nice voices who tell him that he’s forgotten his scarf and ‘here you go, you dropped your scarf and see you tomorrow, sweetheart’ and his stomach hurts.

 

It hurts it hurts it hurts because he misses someone he has never even met and this physical ache in his chest isn’t going away. Not ever, it feels like, he sometimes thinks when he’s coming home from a girl’s house, because even if they’re pretty and blonde and chirpy, holding them never feels right.

 

Joe hates it and he starts to hate hoping, hoping that he’ll meet the love of his life.

 

But… he never stops wearing his scarf.

 

~~He’s just too paranoid to stop.~~

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Caspar still refuses to listen to his soulmate’s voice. He wants to tell whoever comes up with these or whoever is in charge of this whole soulmate fiasco to ‘fuck off because I control who I fall for, not you’, but he’s just so terrified that he is wrong.

 

The word ‘ _Oh’_ haunts him and sometimes he comes so close to touching his wrist and listening. But he doesn’t.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

It’s a rainy Tuesday morning and Joe Sugg is late. He is late to his interview and he didn’t even have time to make a coffee and he’s rushing through the train station and tripping onto the train just as the doors slide shut.

 

And he doesn’t notice that his scarf has fallen to the ground, not until a pretty blonde boy takes it from the floor and taps his shoulder, holding it out to him.

 

“You… forgot your scarf,” the boy says, and Joe’s eyes go wide because _oh,_ of course it’s him, the pretty blonde boy he always sees on the tube but he's always thought that he had no chance with.

 

“Oh,” Joe says, softly, and then louder again, “oh,” this time laughing as he takes his scarf back. He laughs because instead of this working out the way he thought it might, of course the day he finds his soulmate he finds him not because he lost his scarf but because he’s hungover and missed his alarm. The blonde boy is just sitting there completely perplexed because he doesn’t see how his comment was funny?

 

Joe finally sinks into the seat next to him, positively giddy and says,

 

“Fucking finally I hate scarves.”


	7. distracted

It should come as no surprise to anyone at this point, but Caspar Lee is failing all of his classes except for math and PE. Caspar doesn’t mind much—not really—after all, the road he’s going down doesn’t exactly require a 4.0 GPA or specific knowledge about Vikings or how the mitochondria is the ‘powerhouse of the cell’.

 

But because Caspar is a tolerant, nice kid, he agrees to see his teacher after class to talk about his grades.

 

<<>><<>> 

 

“Caspar, you’re a sweet boy, I have to give you that,” Ms. Green says with a wry shake of her head. “But your grades this term are positively _atrocious._ ”

 

Caspar usually likes Ms. Green a lot (she’s a pretty cool teacher), but today… he’s feeling a bit icy towards the woman.

 

“Ouch,” he says, and Ms. Green smiles at him, shoulders tilting in a sheepish shrug.

 

“I’m sorry, Caspar, I know that the career you want doesn’t necessarily require much of you academically, but learning and _knowing_ things just doesn’t really hurt anyone—unless it’s something that’s like, say, I don’t know, how to build a nuclear bomb—but that’s beside the point. You just have to _try_ harder, Caspar.”

 

“I know,” Caspar complains, “but it’s so _hard!_ Nothing comes easily for me, except for math, and even then I get so distracted during homework and tests the best grade I can pull in is a B+.”

 

Ms. Green sighs, setting her folder down on her desk. She’s packing up, getting ready to switch classrooms so she can watch over the kids in detention. “Alright Caspar, how about this. I know you aren’t too keen on the idea, but would you be entirely opposed to a tutor?”

 

Caspar wrinkles his nose. “A tutor? Tutors are for stupid people.”

 

“You’re not stupid, Caspar…”

 

“Exactly! That’s why I don’t need a tutor!” Caspar throws his hands up in the air. “C’mon, Ms. Green. What will me getting good grades do for me?”

 

“It’s a safety net,” Ms. Green explains. “Something to fall back on, something to be proud of.”

 

Caspar makes a face, and Ms. Green just laughs.

 

“Oh, go on then, Caspar, I’ve got the perfect candidate.”

 

“Who?”

 

“He’s a sweet boy, top of the class, used to be on the rugby team? You know, Joe Sugg.”

 

No, Caspar doesn’t know. From what Ms. Green has told him, Joe must be friends with the jocks (people whom Caspar makes a point not to associate with, not because they’re assholes—they aren’t, actually—but because he doesn’t want to be constantly hounded about joining a sport’s team), and Joe is probably in a bunch of high level classes, which Caspar definitely is not.

 

“Hang on a bit, I think he’s still around school or something, maybe he’s on the rugby field? Here,” Ms. Green scribbles a note for Caspar. “Give this to him if you see him, he’s a boy of rather small stature, big blue eyes, and he usually has his hair gelled away from his forehead, in a, what’s it called? A quiff, I think.”

 

“Hair color?” Caspar asks, curious.

 

“Light brown,” Ms. Green informs him, and shoos him out the classroom. “Now get out, Caspar, I have work to do.”

 

Caspar sighs. He really doesn’t want to get on the bad side of one of his favorite teachers, so he actually does go to find this ‘Joe Sugg’.

 

When he gets out to the rugby field, there’s only one kid who matches Ms. Green’s description, and he’s sitting on the bleachers staring down at his phone. Caspar’s breath catches in his chest. Oh. _Oh._ He hadn’t expected for Joe to look so… nice (not personality wise, not really because honestly Joe is really good-looking). Caspar finds himself feeling actually nervous, which is strange because he’s usually pretty out-going.

 

“U-Um, Joe Sugg?” He asks, and winces at the very obvious wobble in his voice.

 

“Yeah?” The guy glances up, lips quirking up into a lopsided smile. “What’s up? Caspar, is it?”

 

“Uh, yeah. Ms. Green said… said that you would help me in some of my classes?”

 

Joe raises his eyebrows. “You need a tutor?”

 

“Sadly,” Caspar sighs, before realizing what he had said, and he quickly shakes his head. “N-Not that I don’t like you or anything or I think that tutors are bad…”

 

Joe laughs, and Caspar feels like melting into a puddle right then and there.

 

“Yeah, okay. I’m free now, if you want to… or for the rest of the week, really.” Joe says, and runs a hand through his hair.

 

“N-Now would be good.” Caspar says, hurriedly.

 

“Oh,” Joe seems a little surprised that Caspar had actually taken him up on his offer, but he smiles nonetheless. “Alright, then. The library?”

 

“Ok.”

 

<<>><<>> 

 

Caspar can NOT concentrate for the life of him. All he can really think is wow, Joe’s eyelashes are a lot longer than he’d originally thought they’d be, and that Joe really does have a nice voice and he’s really, really patient. Joe takes Caspar’s apparent lack of concentration in stride easily, laughing and shoving gently at his shoulder.

 

“C’mon, Caspar!” Joe’s already slipped into easy teasing, and Caspar can only respond in kind with a dopey smile and a soft sigh.

 

“Joe,” Caspar finally says, after an hour of struggling. “Can we take a break? My head hurts.”

 

“Caspar, you’re not trying at all!” Joe scolds, and Caspar’s suddenly surging forwards and without even a second thought, he’s kissed Joe and is stumbling out of his chair and out the library.

 

Joe freezes.

 

What.

 

_What… just… happened?_

 

<<>><<>> 

 

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god, I have screwed up ROYALLY,_ Caspar thinks, pressing his hands to his face and sinking to the ground just outside the library doors. He probably should go even further, but right now his knees feel weak and he doesn’t think he can run just quite yet. Caspar’s always been forwards, especially when flirting with girls—but never this forward. Never.

 

But, for some stupid, inconceivable (well, maybe not so inconceivable, after all) Caspar just can’t get the feeling of Joe’s lips against his (just for that split second, soft and chapped and sweet) and the frozen shock that had seemed to take over the boy.

 

Oh god.

 

“Caspar?” Joe’s voice is still shaky when he finally stumbles out to find Caspar curled on the ground, arms wrapped around his knees and head in his arms.

 

“Joe.” Caspar greets, voice muffled through his knees.

 

“Look up, Caspar.”

 

“No.” Caspar shakes his head, stubborn. “I don’t wanna. You’re gonna hit me or laugh at me.”

 

“I promise I won’t,” Joe coaxes, and it takes a few more tries before Caspar lifts his head. And then…

 

Joe’s mouth is slanting over his and Caspar is only still for a little while before he practically melts. He tilts his head further into the kiss, and he’s pliant under Joe’s touch. Caspar usually likes to take the lead, but then again, he’s never kissed a boy before. Joe’s mouth isn’t as chapstick-y as a girl’s, and he kisses harder, rougher, and Caspar _loves_ it.

 

Joe’s hand as on his cheek, the other on his shoulder, and Caspar grips the front of Joe’s shirt, almost steadying the both of them. He feels his pulse rattling in his throat, and he lets out a pleased sort of noise, muffled by the press of Joe’s mouth. Joe is really good at kissing, Caspar thinks, a little fuzzily.

 

Really good.

 

When they finally pull apart for a breath of air, Caspar’s grinning. He gently knocks his forehead against Joe’s, and with a tilt of his lips, says,

 

“Well, Mr. Sugg, maybe there’s a little something _extra_ you could teach me, today.”

 

And Joe laughs, deep and throaty, and pulls Caspar to his feet.

 

“Maybe,” he says, the word full of promise. “Maybe.”


End file.
